


Growing Familiar

by ThisCat



Category: One Piece
Genre: And That Is Okay, Discussion of Internalized Bigotry, Gen, Healing, Some issues have no quick fix, Trauma, death mention, discussion of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2020-01-01 08:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18331934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisCat/pseuds/ThisCat
Summary: Jimbei and Nami have a talk, because forgiven does not mean forgotten, no matter how much they both wish it did.





	Growing Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> I've been poking at this one for days. I'm ready to be done with it.

The pen glides over the paper, leaving crisp black lines in a steady hand. Nami works quickly. Not sloppily, just backed by a decade of experience.

The library is quiet, walls insulated from the noise of her rambunctious crew, and the only sounds are her own breathing, the scratch of pen on parchment paper and the occasional turn of a page in her reference book.

She barely looks at the book. She knows this map, knows these lines.

Her ink is deep black, glistening for an instant before the paper draws it in. It’s almost blue, not a hint of red to be seen. It smells sharply of the seaweed used to make it, not like blood. She has no reason to bleed here.

She knows these lines. She’s drawn them before, with shaking fingers forcibly steadied and a hitch in her breath from a crack in her ribs.

She’s fine. She’s been fine for a long time. Her ink is black and her pen is clean, and this map is hers alone.

It’s quick work. She has the time to pause, to push her hair out of her eyes, to remind herself that she can stop if she wants to.

She’s on the Sunny. It’s okay. She’s home, she’s safe.

She just really wants to get this done.

The door behind her opens. A breath is drawn. “Ah, Nami. I wondered where you had gone.”

She feels the hand reaching towards her, sees the shadow falling over her.

Flinching violently away, she practically throws herself around to look, pen clutched in her fist like a weapon, heart racing in her throat.

Jimbei freezes in shock, one hand half outstretched.

“Oh, it’s you,” she says. Her hands are shaking. She wills them to stop, forces herself to sit back down as if nothing happened. “Was there anything you wanted?”

“No,” he says, hesitating, letting his hand drop. “Not as such. I am only trying to make myself familiar with the ship.”

Slowly, Nami’s hand is easing up on its death grip on the pen, and she tries for a smile. She’s good at making them look natural. “It’s a surprisingly big ship,” she says. “Well, this is the library. If you have any books you need a place for, or if you need some peace and quiet for once, this is the place for it.”

He nods gratefully, but instead of looking through the bookshelves or going off somewhere else, he stays standing there, looking at her. “Nami,” he says. “Are you all right?”

Her fingers clench around the pen again. “What? No, I mean yes, I’m fine, there’s nothing wrong.”

That was possibly the worst lie she’s ever told. It’s not a surprise when he steps closer in concern.

“Are you certain?” he asks. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can go find someone, or I suppose I can leave you alone, if you are sure you will be fine.”

Oh, this is stupid.

“No,” she says, letting the useless façade drop. “Wait. Don’t go yet.” A deep breath calms the worst of the shaking. She turns her chair so she’s facing him. “I don’t mind talking to you.”

It’s not the best wording, but she doesn’t know what else to say. “ _Sorry for acting crazy; want to know why?”_ or _“Hey, this is terrifying, but it’s personal, so getting someone else won’t help,”_ or maybe _“I don’t want to talk to you, but I refuse to be this weak so I will.”_

She doesn’t know what she’s doing.

He hesitates, and then he walks over and sinks down on the bench next to her workstation. He looks worried.

Of course he’s worried. She’s acting strange, and they’re comrades. It’s only natural that he would be worried.

She’s calming down quickly. It was only a momentary shock.

“First of all,” she says, looking at the pen in her hands rather than up at him. “Forgive me.”

“Forgive you? For what reason?”

“Forgive me,” she repeats. “For thinking you were… someone you’re not.”

The silence stretches, as understanding slowly lights up in his eyes. “Is this about Arlong?” he asks quietly.

She swallows. Her hands are in her lap, fingers intertwined over her pen and her left thumb running over the callouses worn into her right from hours and hours of drawing. “Yes,” she says eventually. “Only a few bad memories of mine. I’m being irrational. Did you know fishmen and humans sound different when they breathe? Most people won’t notice, but I’ve heard too much of both to ever forget.”

Jimbei’s eyes widen. He draws a breath to speak, and by the look on his face and the way he holds himself, she knows what he’s about to say, and suddenly she’s angry.

She shoots up from the chair and holds a hand out to cut him off. “No.”

“No?” he echoes.

“No, don’t you dare,” she says. “Don’t you dare apologize for any of this. You gave your apology. I accepted it. We’re done with that.”

She turns around so quickly her hair swings in the air and starts pacing.

“You’re a crew member,” she says. “You’re my comrade. I refuse to let you take the blame for any of that. It’s like….” She whips around to face him again. “When my mother died, there was a short while I thought it might’ve been my fault. You know, she died because she couldn’t afford to pay for both herself and the two of us, and afterwards, I sometimes started thinking that if only I hadn’t been there, she would’ve lived.”

Jimbei looks horrified, and she realizes that no one has filled him in on the details of what Arlong did to her and her home.

She can’t stop talking now that she’s started. “I was _wrong_ ,” she says, and she stresses that to make sure he understands. “I realized that early, or else I would’ve gone insane. None of that was my fault for existing, for being there, and _neither was it yours_ _for not knowing_. Everything that happened was the fault of one person, and one person only. Arlong is and was the one to blame. His crew should’ve done better, but they followed his orders, and I refuse to blame _anyone_ outside all of that. Not myself, not you, and _certainly_ not your entire race.”

Huffing, she drops back into her chair.

“Our race?” Jimbei asks, quietly, in the voice of a man who already knows the answer to his question.

She takes another deep breath. Tears are gathering in her eyes, but she has more to say before she can start crying for real.

“I know.” Her voice breaks, so she tries again. “I know that fishmen in general are no better or worse than humans. I don’t have anything against fishmen, it’s just….”

The half-finished map sits beside her on the desk. Still pristine, kept carefully clear of the tears dripping from her face. She’s careful with her maps.

“I drew so many maps for him,” she says, leaning back to let her hair fall over the back of the chair. She hasn’t really talked about this before. Not like this. It feels like digging pieces out of her own heart. “Hundreds of them. They were all lost when Luffy took the place down, and that’s _good_. It’s _better_ that way. When I’m redrawing them, the memories are closer to the surface, and when I heard you breathe, I was suddenly back there.”

“How long?” he asks, and there’s a deep anger in his voice that is not directed at her. “How many years did you work for him?”

“Eight,” she says. “I was ten when he showed up.”

His next breath comes out between his teeth, and she looks up to see him glaring into nothing.

When he speaks again, he’s nearly growling. “For eight years, fishmen were synonymous with the worst thing you knew. Of course that will stick with you.”

“But it’s _wrong_ ,” she says, hands hitting the desk and curling into fists. “I even like Hachi these days. You’re my _comrade_. I’d trust you with my life. For me to be uncomfortable around fishmen in general is… it’s _irrational_.”

“Nami.” The growl is gone, the anger fading as quickly as it arrived, being replaced by old melancholia. He reaches out with a careful hand. “May I?”

She sniffles a little, and nods.

He lays his hand over hers. It’s warm and heavy. His skin is just barely smoother than Arlong’s, but he is gentle. If she wanted to pull away, she could.

She doesn’t.

“I understand,” he says. “It’s okay. You are allowed to be irrational.”

“I don’t want to be.”

“Neither did Tiger,” he says, and she realizes that maybe he really does understand. He puts his other hand over the sun tattoo on his chest. “Minds are a little like skin, I think. Easy to mark, but not so easy to heal cleanly.”

She raises her free hand almost subconsciously to mirror him, touching her fingers to the pinwheel tattooed on her shoulder, and the rough scar just visible under it, faded, but still there. “There are always ways to make things better,” she says.

Jimbei smiles then, finally. “There are,” he agrees. “Tiger died before he could, and I will always regret that, but, if you pardon me saying it, your marks don’t run quite as deep and you are not dying yet. I have no doubts you will persist until you have overcome every obstacle in your path. Though, it will not happen instantly.”

She slides her hand out from under his and puts it on top. Then she wipes away the last of her tears. “I know.”

“And if there is anything I can do to help, I’d be glad to. If you need me to knock before coming in here or to keep my distance for a while, all you need to do is ask.”

“I appreciate it,” she says. Her smile this time is genuine. “Though I’m not sure either of those would help in the long run. If you want to do something….”

“Yes?”

“You know I used to hate pirates?” she says. “The Arlong Pirates were the first fishmen I ever met, but they were the first pirates too, and that part was more important. And then I met Luffy and he overwrote all my preconceptions. This is also about overwriting,” she says, gesturing at her map. “The ones I made for him were drawn in blood. Now I’m drawing over all of that. Making them better. I think I might need to do the same to this set of memories. Stay with me?”

“While you draw?” he asks.

She nods. “I’m not very talkative while I’m working, so you might need to find a book to read, but I would appreciate it if you… if you were here.”

“If you’re sure,” he says. “It would be my pleasure.”

Soon, she’s picking her pen back up, sliding her straightedge out from under a book.

The ink is clean and black, glistening for a moment as she draws crisp, straight lines on the parchment paper.

The room is quiet, but not too quiet. Under the comforting scratch of her pen she hears the turning of pages and the slow, steady breaths of her companion. Recognizable. Familiar.

She is safe. She is home.


End file.
